


In the crush of the dark

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Rimming, Technically underage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 22:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never said please. He demanded, he regaled, he commanded, but he didn’t <i>request</i>. This was Sherlock at his most vulnerable, perhaps, or his most manipulative.</p><p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86190870#t86190870">this</a> prompt at the kinkmeme:<i>16-19 year old Sherlock calls Lestrade "daddy" when they fuck.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In the crush of the dark

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the La Roux song [Tigerlily](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iwg6tFr1ZSY)

The first time DC Lestrade met Sherlock Holmes, the boy radiated a frustrated energy, his voice snappish and annoyed in the manner of a child desperate to be heard. Standing at the edge of the crime scene, barely held back by the presence of two uniformed officers, he went on about the sister-in-law, the pot plant, and “why people couldn’t just _see_ , they’re all idiots, and it’s no wonder crimes never get solved in this country.”

No one did listen, and Greg’s DI instructed him to “get rid of that fecking tweaker, I want the little poof off my crime scene.” Always a charmer, DI Pitts. Greg went to the edge of the road, where the boy had pushed past the crowd and was now staring down Constable Jeffries rather intently, and, from the look on Jeffries’ face and the bits of the conversation Greg caught, revealing some less-than-savoury activities in which the Constable’s wife had been involved.

“I’ll take this, Jeffries,” Greg said, reaching to guide the kid away, arm held out non-threateningly but authoritatively. 

The kid glanced at him, eyed him up and down, and said, his voice plummy and dripping with disdain, “My god, can’t the Met employ anyone with a brain in their hollow little heads? None of you can see anything right under your nose, him with his wife and you with your closeted little secret.” 

Greg froze, wondering just how much Jeffries had heard and just how quickly it would be spread to the rest of the team. Not that the kid had spilled anything other than innuendo, though he looked ready to, but how the fuck would he know, anyway? Greg set his jaw and stepped forward once again, this time with enough force behind his movement to bring the boy up short. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave, son.” The diminutive slipped out unconsciously, making Greg feel more like his father’s age than his own twenty-nine years.

The boy didn’t step back at Greg’s strong arm, standing instead in his space, looking him in the eye. “If you’d just _listen_ to me this could all be solved.”

“What do you know?” Surprise flashed across the boy’s face; he’d not expected Greg to actually ask him, actually be willing to hear him out. Greg raised his eyebrows pointedly and, with a nod of his head, indicated a café across the street. He stepped forward and this time the boy stepped back, following his lead. 

Seated at a rickety table with two steaming cups of coffee, Greg listened as the boy recounted the evidence against the sister-in-law. “How do you know all of this?”

“I look; I observe.”

“You weren’t –”

“Involved? Please.” The word dripped with disdain and Greg had a sudden image of this boy’s life, encapsulated in that one syllable: privilege, yes, but also defensiveness. 

Slowly, telegraphing his movements, Greg reached one hand out to encircle the boy’s thin wrist. The pulse under his fingertips fluttered madly, though the boy’s eyes were clear and sharp. Anger, then, frustration and rage and all the hormones of adolescence flowing through his veins. The boy narrowed his eyes, jerking his hand away after a moment. 

“What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, Sherlock Holmes, I’m DC Lestrade. I’ll look into what you told me.” He managed to get a phone number for Sherlock, in case he needed to follow-up, and they parted. Greg watched the skinny figure walk away, hands buried deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind, and wondered what exactly he had just stumbled into.

++

From then, he couldn’t be rid of him. It seemed that Sherlock Holmes, aged sixteen years and currently in his final year at Harrow, had more than a passing schoolboy’s fancy in crime-solving. Not a week passed that Greg didn’t receive a note in the mail or a phone call with terse hints to whichever of his team’s cases were in the news. He followed them, every time, though was less than keen to tell the rest of his team where he got his intel. 

He didn’t see him in person until a year later and when he showed up Greg found himself wishing he had stuck to phone calls. Greg had made Sergeant a few months before, thanks in part, he knew, to his helpful anonymous source. Any ambivalence he’d had about listening to the boy’s advice had slowly eked away with each solved case, with each murderer or rapist behind bars. That didn’t mean, though, that he was particularly desirous of being reminded that a teenager – a privileged, well-educated one, but a teen nonetheless – had a better eye for clues and connections than his whole team.

Sherlock stood at the corner of the crime scene, just like a year before, but this time his raving voice was pitched just too high, right on the edge of manic, his hands gesturing emphatically. Greg approached him, sent away the uniform who had been attempting to keep him on the periphery, and grabbed his wrist mid-gesticulation. 

“Sherlock –” he stopped to peer into the boy’s eyes. “Are you high?” Sherlock attempted to shrug him off, but with the movement the dull light of the streetlamp caught his profile, revealing a dark wound on his temple. The blood was matted and black, a slow drip making its way down his jawline. “Sherlock, what the _fuck_?”

Sherlock looked away from him, itching at his forearm. “It’s nothing, it’s not important.” Greg dragged him closer to the light, forcing his chin up so he could inspect the wound. “Leave it, Lestrade, and listen to me. You need to talk to the workman – electrician maybe, plasterer more likely.”

“You need to go to hospital, get that checked out. Are you up-to-date on your tetanus and all?”

“Lestrade –”

“I’ll listen,” Greg interrupted, “if you let me take you to get that looked at.” Sherlock glared and tried to argue his way out but Greg stood firm. Finally, Sherlock relented and, checking to make sure he was no longer needed – the scene was in the final stages of processing anyway, his part wouldn’t come until tomorrow, combing through evidence, conducting interviews – he flagged them down a cab.

At the hospital, though, the wait was interminable. 

“I’m sorry, sir. There’s just been a major accident.” As if he couldn’t tell from the blare of sirens, the rush of gurney after gurney through the ambulance entrance. The nurse set down a clipboard in front of them, her eyes flicking between Greg, tired body held up mainly by caffeine and nicotine, and Sherlock, who sprawled over him loosely, held up only perfunctorily by Greg’s arm around his torso. “Your son will need to wait, I’m afraid.”

“He’s not my –”

“Daddy. Make the mean nurse go away.” Sherlock tipped his head back, looking up at Greg with eyes just this shade of too wide to be truly convincing, and Greg ground his teeth together to keep in his words. He knew he was greying already and Sherlock, with his too-thin lankness and the gawky gangliness he tried to hide with haughty tones and insults, looked barely pubescent. But he wasn’t old enough to be the kid’s father, for god’s sake.

He swallowed his pride rather than allow Sherlock any more opportunity to embarrass him. “Fine,” he choked out to the nurse. “We’ll just wait over here.” He picked up the clipboard and manoeuvred Sherlock over to a pair of seats in the corner, well secluded from the other patients. He dropped Sherlock unceremoniously in one chair, earning a glare for his troubles. 

“I don’t need to be here, Lestrade.” Sherlock’s voice retained some of its usual haughty dignity, for all that he was sprawled across the worn vinyl chair. 

“Yeah, you do. I don’t know what the fuck you took –” Sherlock waved one hand imperiously but Greg continued, speaking over any protest Sherlock might have voiced. “– but it might not have been clean. Not to mention that head wound.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock drew himself up in the chair, straightening his shoulders, his grip on the arms of the chair belying his attempt at effortlessness. “I’m already coming down and this,” he fluttered one hand near his temple, the gesture slightly fey in an endearing, childlike manner, “is barely a scratch.”

Greg ignored him, taking the next seat over and turning his attention to the clipboard in front of him, which asked for Sherlock’s medical history. He wrote in Sherlock’s name and then stopped. He didn’t know anything else, not even Sherlock’s date of birth. The boy was somewhere between seventeen and eighteen, that much he knew, and he tried not to dwell on the part of his mind that was hopeful it was closer to eighteen. 

He was still staring at the questions, the letters blurring into indecipherable scrambles, when he felt Sherlock’s body weight against him. “C’mon Lestrade.” The sound of the boy’s low, husky murmur was accompanied by his breath, hot against Greg’s ear. “Take me home. I can sleep it off.”

Greg turned his head slightly to look down at Sherlock; his cheek was pressed up against Greg’s shoulder as he gazed up, doe-eyed and pink-lipped. Greg swallowed and shifted in his seat. He could hear the wet parting of Sherlock’s lips as he opened his mouth, just enough to touch the tip of his tongue to one corner. The gesture, deliberate or not, held just the right note of casual suggestiveness that had always appealed to Greg. 

His love life had been scant for the past few years. After moving to London when he was close to Sherlock’s age and having his fair share of one-night stands and frantic gropes in the bog, in the alley, in the park, he’d joined the force at twenty and quickly found that attitudes like DI Pitts’ were all too common. Discretion had then become his aim and, after a few years, discretion on top of overtime had become too much to handle, and his sex life had been the one to suffer over his career. 

So there was nothing wise about this fleeting thought, nothing smart in taking home an inebriated seventeen-year-old, even if he never touched him. He could be arrested, lose his job. The suspicion alone, even if nothing happened, could be enough to keep him from ever making DI.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes, tucking against Greg more closely, and for a moment he saw the young, fragile boy behind the whip-smart mind, the need for reassurance behind the scathing remarks. He wondered, not for the first time, about Sherlock’s family circumstances, about who – if anyone – worried about him, about who had been there on these nights in the past, tucking him in and watching to make sure he didn’t fall too hard in the aftermath.

Almost unconsciously, Greg stroked Sherlock’s cheek with the back of his index finger; he was warm and slightly clammy, but not feverish. His earlier manic energy had dropped and the cut on his temple had long since stopped bleeding. Sleeping it off might be the best choice after all. 

“All right then.” He nudged Sherlock with an elbow and the boy blinked up at him. “I’ll take you home – you can crash on my sofa.” Sherlock’s smile in response held a note of triumph and glee and he allowed Greg to help him stand, clinging perhaps a bit too much to Greg’s body as he regained his balance.

He tucked one arm under Sherlock’s, encircling his ribs and holding him close, hoping their combined masses would keep them both upright. As they pass out the door, Sherlock’s voice, pitched low and quiet, only for Greg’s ears, murmured, “C’mon, then, _daddy_. Put your boy to bed.” 

Greg faltered for a moment, the blatant and deliberate heat in Sherlock’s voice sending an involuntary thrill down his spine. It had little of the shy uncertainty he might have expected from the manic and cerebral boy. In fact, there was an ever-so-slightly sardonic edge to the words, as if he found amusement in trying on the come-on.

He felt Sherlock press slightly closer to him, bony hip against his, and when Sherlock inhaled his ribcage expanded against the side of Greg’s chest. Sherlock had noticed Greg’s pause – of course he had, he noticed everything, even when half off his head – and he steeled himself for another sarcastic comment even as he roused himself to make their way to the door.

All he heard, though, was a murmured, “Interesting,” the word drawn out, slight bite on the first t making Greg’s thoughts rush to the click of Sherlock’s tongue against his teeth, a thought he quickly ushered away. As they walked out of the room, Sherlock clung to him a little more dramatically, one arm slipping around his waist, weight shifted so their bodies leaned together.

Greg rolled his eyes and hoped that the bored and worried patients filling the waiting room might see the pair as the nurse had – a rather unlikely father and son. He told himself firmly that he was only taking Sherlock home to keep an eye on him; in his state nothing else could or would happen, regardless of Sherlock’s slick-hot words, voice deep and knowing. What Sherlock needed was a hot meal and a firm hand and if somehow Greg’s emotions conflated _need_ and _want_ , guidance with desire, well, he’d need to ignore it, for both their sakes.

++

Sherlock tried to kiss him at the door but Greg, rolling his eyes, pushed him off enough to fit the key, shove the door open. They stumbled through together and Greg guided him to the sofa. Tugging on his arm, Sherlock pulled Greg down next to him, one lanky arm tossed around Greg’s shoulders.

“You like it,” Sherlock drawled, mouth pressed sloppily against Greg’s neck. Greg twisted, pushed him away slightly; Sherlock’s body, boneless and loose, sprawled against the back of the sofa, head lolling and a lazy grin in place. “You like me like this. Helpless. Needing your firm hand.” He looked at Greg from under his lashes, his eyes dark and heavy.

“You’re still high. Sleep it off.” Greg stood, grabbed a blanket from the back of the armchair and tossed it over Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked at the blanket with narrowed eyes then up at Greg. “On the sofa?”

“Yes,” Greg answered firmly, forcing doubt out of his voice, keeping the incipient desire in check. 

Sherlock scoffed. “Boring.”

“Go to sleep.” Greg turned out the light and retreated to his room.

Sleep was long in coming, though, and Greg stared up at his ceiling and tried not to listen for noises from the other room. 

++

When he woke the next morning Sherlock was already gone, the only evidence of his presence the lingering smell of his cigarettes. 

Greg didn’t see him again for five months. He started to worry after a few weeks and called the last number Sherlock had given him, only to be told that Sherlock didn’t live there anymore. He called the rest of the numbers he’d ever had only to receive the same answer. 

When Sherlock did show up, it wasn’t to a crime scene but to Greg’s front door. Three sharp raps rang out late evening on one of Greg’s too-rare nights off. He was sprawled across his sofa, half-heartedly watching telly; his mind had wandered to one of his current cases, a student found dead in his bedsit. He frowned at the noise, not expecting visitors, and opened the door with some curiosity.

Leaning against the doorframe, propped on one forearm stretched against the wood, ankles crossed, Sherlock was a study in carefully composed casualness. He looked healthier, like he’d had a well-nourished growth spurt, colour to his cheeks and muscle to his frame. He looked up at Greg as the door opened, eyes still sharp and cunning, with a teasing quirk to his lip.

“Where the fuck have you been?” Greg’s voice wasn’t as casual as he’d hoped, a hint of worry and the edge of anger creeping in. Sherlock pushed off the doorframe nonchalantly and in the sweep of his arm and the uncrossing of his feet there lived a coiled grace, a new balance overtaking his former air of tenuous precariousness. 

He stepped forward, their shoulders brushing as he walked into Greg’s flat without an answer and without an invitation. 

“I mean it, Sherlock, I was worried.” Greg closed the door and leaned against it with his hands behind him, maintaining the distance between them.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder as if surprised Greg hadn’t followed him into the sitting room. “Rehab,” he drawled, as if it were the most tedious thought in the world. 

Greg cocked his head, studied him. Eyes clear, movements restrained, controlled. “Has it stuck, then?”

Sherlock lifted one shoulder, an elegant half-shrug that managed the perfect intonation of nonchalance. “For now.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Reconnecting. Isn’t that what people do?” His voice was flat, like he was repeating a phrase by rote, like the very concept of staying in touch was foreign. 

“Wondering if I have any cases for you?” A flicker of a smile passed fleetly across Sherlock’s face; Greg would have thought it was pleasure at the anticipation of a new puzzle were it not for the sliver of something darker, something _knowing_ , at its edges. 

Sherlock turned fully back to face him and took a step forward, closing the distance between them. He stopped mere inches away, their feet lined up, and Greg cursed his choice to stay pressed against the door. Sherlock studied him – he had to look down, slightly, now, to catch Greg’s eye, and Greg found himself unconsciously straightening up. 

“Why are you here?”

“Because you need me.” His breath, hot and damp, ghosted over Greg’s cheek and Greg kept his eyes open, fought against the impulse to let them flutter shut. He squared his shoulders, pressing them against the door, and watched Sherlock watching him.

“No.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “No, I don’t. I can do without you,” he asserted, “thousands of other detectives do. Besides,” he added, pushing away from the door and side-stepping around Sherlock, “I’m not the one showing up at your flat in the middle of the night.”

For a moment, Sherlock looked shocked. Not, Greg thought, at the assertion itself, but at the kernel of truth in it. Sherlock could have stayed away; he’d proven that Greg couldn’t track him down, could only have contact if he, Sherlock, wished. But here he was, _flirting_ , and not for Greg’s body, he was fairly certain. 

His earlier attempts had been deeply suggestive, making full use of his smooth voice and near-graceful body, while still containing a note of falsity, as if he were play-acting, taking on a part he had seen but wasn’t yet quite convinced by. The act was still on, but it was more knowing, more purposeful. He covered his flicker of surprise quickly, lips softening and taking on a teasing smirk.

“Perhaps you don’t need me, then – though I rather suspect your solve rate says otherwise –” Greg sighed; it was just like Sherlock to mingle an insult or two into what he was fairly certain was supposed to be a seduction. “But surely,” he stepped closer, into Greg’s space, skinny fingers curling around his wrist to hold him in place, “surely you want me.” Sherlock’s breath ghosted over Greg’s cheekbone.

Greg was all too aware of the minute ways his body betrayed him: a quickened pulse under Sherlock’s fingertips, a sharp intake of breath at his words, the slight flicker of his lashes and dilation of his pupils. Sherlock, who saw everything, could undoubtedly read each sign of lust and desire, and a dozen more Greg didn’t even know about besides.

Before Greg could extract his wrist and push him away, Sherlock dropped to his knees, fingers of one hand curled tight around Greg’s hip as he groped to unzip his fly. Frantically covering Sherlock’s hand, all too aware of the brush of their entwined fingers against his cock, Greg managed to still his actions. “What is this, Sherlock?”

Sherlock glanced up at him, the seductive half-flutter of his lashes betrayed by the slight annoyed roll of his eyes. “I should think it would be quite obvious, Lestrade. Surely you’ve had a blowjob before?”

Greg grabbed his hair to keep him from starting his pursuit again. “I mean why are you doing it?”

Sherlock stilled and huffed a sigh, sitting back on his heels. “Let’s call it thanks for services rendered.”

Stifling a groan, Greg dropped to a squat, facing the boy. “You don’t have to thank me this way, really.”

Sherlock dropped his hands to his knees. “Payment for future services, then. Really, why does it matter?” The last word was half-cried, almost plaintively, and with more than a little frustration.

“It matters because I don’t want you to think that you have to do…this –” he gestured between them, “for me to listen to you. I’ll listen anyway. You’ve been right on almost everything so far; I’d be stupid not to.” He touched Sherlock’s chin, tilting it up to make eye contact. 

Sherlock considered him for a moment then glanced away, licking his lips. “What if I said I wanted it?”

“Do you?”

“You do.” Sherlock turned his gaze back on Greg, filing slowly – and pointedly – up from his crotch to his face. Greg licked his lips nervously, feeling his cheeks flush. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah, well, that’s not enough, is it? I’m not going to ask something of you that you don’t want, son. It’s not – I don’t –”

“You wouldn’t be assaulting me, Lestrade. Not if I asked you for it.” Greg glared at him, stony-faced, and shifted his legs to rest one knee on the ground, supporting his weight so he could sit back on his heels. Sherlock read something in his silence – acceptance? invitation? – and canted his body forward, placing his hands on either side of Greg’s knees, pushing himself into his space. “And I am asking. Please, Lestrade,” he edged slightly closer, voice pitching low, “please let me suck you.”

Greg swallowed, willing himself to push Sherlock away, to stand and ask him to leave, to gain control of the situation. He got as far as lifting his hands before Sherlock spoke again, eyes flicking down to stare at Greg’s crotch, where his cock stirred pleasantly at the attention. “And after, please –” the word was breathy and soft, “I want you to fuck me.” He slid his hands up Greg’s thighs, soft, sensitive fingertips against the worn denim. 

Sherlock never said please. He demanded, he regaled, he commanded, but he didn’t _request_. The word sounded strange on his lips, enough to convince Greg that this moment, this little space in time with them, kneeling awkwardly in his dingy flat, was something rather out of the ordinary. Sherlock at his most vulnerable, perhaps, or his most manipulative.

Sherlock leaned forward, his weight against Greg’s legs upsetting his balance; Greg’s other knee slammed painfully to the floor and he found himself only inches from Sherlock’s face. He could feel the boy’s breath hot against his lips as Sherlock tipped closer, nearly bringing their lips together. “Take care of me. Please, daddy.” The last word was barely more than a whisper, hesitant and breathless, and it was the sound, the near uncertainty of the pleading gasp, that broke Greg.

He ducked his head, tilting his chin forward enough to meet Sherlock’s lips. The kiss was soft, closed mouth and sweet and Sherlock’s words echoed in Greg’s mind. _Take care of me. Daddy. Take care of me._ He pulled back, blinking, uncertain. “Are you – have you…before?”

Sherlock looked annoyed at the interruption, narrowing his eyes. “Do you want to be my first, Lestrade?” Even though something in that thought – in being the first to explore that newly-muscled form, to touch soft, private skin and wring out ecstasies of pleasure – appealed, it felt somehow too immense, too absurd for them, together, in this strange untrusting dance. 

He shook his head. “No, no, I don’t want that.” Sherlock studied him, mouth pinched in a slight hint of annoyance, then shrugged, a gesture of complete and controlled nonchalance.

“Good, because you aren’t.” He leaned back in and kissed Greg rather more soundly, teeth insistent behind his lips, tongue dancing along the seam of Greg’s mouth until he opened, let him in. Greg moaned, clutching at Sherlock’s shirt as their lips fell together, full of heat and heavy pressure. Sherlock’s taste was slightly minty, and Greg felt a rather sudden assurance that Sherlock had come over with a certain plan in mind. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or flattered but his train of thought was cut off as Sherlock nipped at his lower lip.

“You’re thinking,” he murmured, mouth travelling to Greg’s jawline, “stop it.”

“Of course I’m thinking,” he snapped back irritably, “this is a terrible –” he was cut off by the sudden pressure of Sherlock’s teeth against the soft flesh of his neck, gasping at the sharp bite.

“I think it’s a rather inspired idea myself,” Sherlock drawled, voice dripping with self-satisfied triumph as Greg moaned to the rough swipe of his tongue against the now-sensitive bruise on his neck. He just hoped it was low enough to cover with his collar.

“In fact,” Sherlock murmured, moving his hands up Greg’s legs, thumbs digging in slightly at the top of his thigh, “I think it’s one of the best ideas you’ve had, _daddy_.” The breath rushed out of Greg’s lungs as Sherlock’s mouth covered his, one hand moving to palm his half-hard cock.

“I…” This was wrong; Greg wasn’t old enough to be his dad, no, but he was old enough to know better. He stilled and pulled away. “Why do you keep –” he swallowed roughly, “keep saying…that?”

Sherlock swiped his tongue over his upper lip, grinning slyly. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know.” Greg groaned at Sherlock’s impatient and amused expression. “Why do you keep calling me…daddy?”

“Because you like it.”

“No, I – how do you –”

Sherlock sighed and sat back, placing his hands on his thighs. “The first time, you were surprised but didn’t stop me. The second time you were surprised again but also aroused. The third time, you kissed me, and the fourth time, well,” he reached out and palmed Greg’s growing erection, eliciting an involuntary moan.

“It’s not the word, Sherlock,” he managed to choke out. “It’s your voice.”

“Oh, I can assure you, it’s both.” Sherlock fluttered his eyes half closed, leaning in minutely, and dropped his voice. “Would you like me to show you? Would you like me to take you inside me, let you fuck me, and show you all the ways you can take care of me?

Greg’s cock twitched; his thighs burned in his kneeling position and his blood rushed just too fast through his body. “Fuck, Sherlock, I…”

Sherlock’s hand reached between his legs, fingertips trailing teasingly over the obvious bulge. “Because that’s what this is about, isn’t it? You like to take care of me; you see me and see a boy needing saving.” He leaned in and licked the skin just behind Greg’s earlobe; Greg’s eyes fluttered shut as he leaned unconsciously into Sherlock’s tongue. “I don’t need to be taken care of, Lestrade.” His breath was hot in Greg’s ear, sending a flush of warmth down his neck. 

“I don’t need you to watch out for me.” He punctuated his words with a nip to the lobe of Greg’s ear. “But,” he pressed his hand against Greg’s cock, causing a deep, shaky sigh, “I’m willing to let me take care of me, here. To be my daddy,” his other hand gripped tight at Greg’s hip, “and teach me with all your _superior_ knowledge.”

Ignoring Sherlock’s sarcastic tone at the end, Greg turned his head sharply, bringing up his hands to grip Sherlock’s jaw and hold him steady as he forced their lips together. The kiss was punishing, insistent, Greg’s grip keeping Sherlock from lunging in and taking the lead.

If Sherlock wanted to be taught, fine, Greg was only too willing to oblige with a firm hand. “Bedroom. Now.” He growled against his lips, grabbing Sherlock’s forearms to clumsily lift them both from the floor. Sherlock barely hid his triumphant grin and Greg swatted his arse, perhaps just a bit too firmly to be playful. “I said now, son.”

Sherlock’s breath hitched and his lip quirked up, pleased, but he made his way to Greg’s bedroom without comment. Greg closed the door behind them and eyed Sherlock. He stood at the foot of Greg’s bed, feet spread slightly and one arm crossing his chest, holding his elbow. His shoulders rolled forward slightly, eyes lowered, quite the picture of shy deference. As he watched, silent, Greg could see the slight twitch of impatience at the corner of Sherlock’s lip; he found the movement reassuring, evidence of Sherlock’s familiar true nature under the mask of submissiveness.

Greg leaned against the door casually. “Strip, please.” Sherlock glanced up at him, hesitating. “Now. Unless you want me to do it for you.” He tried to make his voice authoritative, threatening, rather than inviting, and the way Sherlock glanced up at him, then away as if bashful, told him he succeeded. 

Sherlock stood still and Greg rolled his eyes, pushed off the door. He stepped close to Sherlock, hands on his hips roughly pulling him into place as his fingers slipped beneath his waistband, under the soft elastic of his pants. Greg slid one hand up Sherlock’s side, lifting the soft cotton tee, backs of his fingers ghosting over ribs. Sherlock inhaled, sharply, and Greg grinned, danced his fingers lightly over the same spot again.

He pulled the tee over Sherlock’s head, off his arms, and it was all he could do not to bite the tense muscle of his shoulder, not to bury his mouth in the soft hair under his arm, inhale his scent. Instead he kissed him roughly, pulling at his flies and pushing his jeans down over slim hips. Sherlock helped, shoving them down his thighs and kicking them off his feet, standing on top of the pooled denim in his pants and nothing else.

“Those too, son,” Greg said with a nod, unbuttoning his own shirt, leaving it on but casually opened over his chest. Sherlock hooked his fingers around the band of his pant, slipping them off his hips and down his legs. Naked, he stood with a slight awkwardness that seemed true rather than put-on, or at least a small truth exaggerated for Greg’s interest. He was a bit too thin all over, bones visible, knobby knees and elbows, but with slim, sinewy muscles in his arms and thighs, the look of a boy just coming out of a growth spurt, just growing into his body. 

His body hair was sparse and surprisingly pale compared to the mop on his head and his cock, though flushed, was still soft between his legs. He caught Greg looking and coughed, turned his head. “It sometimes –”

“Do you want this?” Greg interrupted him, voice soft. 

Sherlock’s gaze snapped back to him, annoyed. “Yes, I’ve said, haven’t I? I just – I don’t always…right away.” Greg studied him; beyond the obvious tension at having to explain himself, it didn’t seem like Sherlock was willing himself, forcing something he didn’t want. 

“Okay,” he said, “it’s okay.” He could hear the softness in his own voice and saw Sherlock’s nostrils flare in annoyance. That wasn’t what he wanted – pity. He wanted dominance, wanted Greg to take control. He took a steadying breath and shoved down his own jeans and pants, kicking them aside. “On your knees, then.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged in relief and he dropped immediately, kneeling in front of Greg. He scraped his hands over Greg’s thighs, looked up at Greg, mouth slightly open. Greg ran his fingers around Sherlock’s ear, twisting in his dark hair, soft against his rough fingertips, before curling his hand around the back of Sherlock’s head brusquely. 

He pulled Sherlock’s face closer to him. “Come on, then, son. Suck me. Show me what you know.” The tip of Sherlock’s tongue wetted his lips before he ducked forward, taking the head of Greg’s cock in his mouth with no preamble. He circled his tongue around the tip, playing the foreskin over the sensitive nerves. Greg moaned and fisted his hands to keep from grasping Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock sensed his motion, though, and glanced up and god, how could one expression be so arrogantly insulting and devastatingly seductive at once? Understanding, Greg loosened his fists and curled his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. He guided the boy’s head, gently at first then more insistently, rougher, as Sherlock swallowed him down. Reaching the base of Greg’s shaft, Sherlock exhaled noisily, hot breath fluttering across the dark curls and sending a current straight to Greg’s every nerve, and swallowed, his mouth and throat tightening, hot and wet. 

Greg held him in place, snapping his hips just once to feel the slip-slide push of Sherlock’s tongue on the underside of his cock. Sherlock sucked obligingly, lips tightening and cheeks hollowing, and the pressure made Greg curse under his breath. “Fuck,” he exhaled, “fuck, Sherlock, jesus, where did you fucking learn that?”

Sherlock nudged his head against Greg’s hands and Greg loosened his grip, let him back off. He came off Greg’s cock with a wet pop and grinned lazily up as he reached to slowly stroke Greg’s spit-slick shaft. “Public school, Lestrade,” he said flippantly. Greg rolled his eyes but his good-natured annoyance was cut short by Sherlock’s other hand gently rolling his testicles in time with the strokes on his cock. Sherlock tongued Greg, sliding sloppily over the head of his cock, down the underside until his mouth met his hand. 

The slick friction began to heat up and Greg could feel the muscles in his thighs tense as he arched into Sherlock’s fist. He didn’t want to come yet, though, not with all of Sherlock’s heady promises hanging in the air, so he grasped Sherlock’s shoulder and pushed him off, a little rougher than necessary. 

“I believe you said something about my fucking you,” he said, his voice a little hoarse and less steady than he’d have liked. Sherlock grinned and ambled to his feet, backing up until he hit the edge of the bed. He stood, defiant, forcing Greg to make a move; Greg stepped forward and pushed against his hips, toppling his balance and splaying him across the bed.

Sherlock’s cock had stirred and was heavy and half-hard between his legs. Sherlock lay back on the bed, seemingly unconcerned with his own state of arousal as he leaned back on his elbows and spread his legs. Greg considered him, standing at the foot of the bed to examine the boy’s lithe and angular frame, draped possessively, wantonly over the bed. His fair skin was flushed slightly, mouth still wet and reddened, knees rough with the impression of Greg’s bedroom carpet. 

Sherlock wriggled impatiently, settling his shoulders more firmly against the pillows. “Come on, Lestrade, don’t you want to take care of your boy?” He skated his hand once, nonchalantly, over his own cock, keeping his eyes locked with Greg’s. “C’mon, daddy,” he pitched his voice lower, letting his thumb swipe over the head of his cock, “I’ll get hard for you, don’t worry. When you fuck me, when you fill me up, I’ll enjoy it, I promise.”

Greg’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he gathered strength, strength not to hook those slim legs over his shoulders and plough into Sherlock right away. Letting out a deep breath, he knelt on the bed and leaned over Sherlock. He pressed his face right at the crease of Sherlock’s thigh, inhaling the young, salty scent of him, a light sheen of sweat on his clean body. Swallowing deeply, he sat back on his heels and swatted Sherlock on the arse.

“Turn over, son. On your knees.” Sherlock’s eyes widened but he complied, turning over and tucking his ankles together while spreading his knees, leaning forward on his elbows as he presented his arse to Greg. Greg mouthed the hollow of his back, kissing the shallow dimples on either side of his spine and trailing soft bites over the curve of his buttocks. At each nip of his teeth, Sherlock shivered a bit, the muscles in his thighs tensing with the effort to keep himself still – stopping himself from squirming away or pressing closer, Greg wasn’t sure.

He spread Sherlock’s cheeks apart and drew his tongue down the crease, taking in the salty flavour as he skirted over his hole. Sherlock let out a deep, shuddering breath at the contact and, holding back a smile, Greg licked him again. He teased him, flicking his tongue over his anus lightly until Sherlock cursed, muffling the sound against his arm. 

“What was that, son? Something you’d like to share?” Greg kept his mouth buried in Sherlock’s arse, his voice a tremulous vibration that made Sherlock fall silent in response. He nipped lightly at the soft skin of his crease before saying, teasingly, “Really, Sherlock, do tell me if there’s something else you’d rather I be doing right now.”

Sherlock moaned before gasping out, “Fuck, Lestrade, please, more.”

“More what, exactly?” Greg let the tip of his tongue just touch against Sherlock’s hole before withdrawing again.

“Fuck,” Sherlock paused and gritted his teeth, as if composing himself. “Your tongue, inside me. Please,” he added.

Greg grinned and tightened his grip slightly on Sherlock’s cheeks, feeling the boy’s muscles strain against him. “Please, who?” He asked mildly. Sherlock had started the whole twisted game, but Greg would be damned if he’d let him give it up just as soon as some of that all-mighty composure slipped.

“Please, _daddy_ , please, fuck me with your tongue.” Who was Greg to refuse such a polite request? He pushed the point of his tongue against Sherlock’s hole, feeling some resistance before the tip slipped in. He licked inside of Sherlock, feeling the boy shudder beneath him, letting his saliva lube up his hole as he felt it begin to loosen around his tongue. 

He only abstractly heard Sherlock’s choked gasp but came to his senses as the boy panted, between breaths, “Fuck me, please, daddy, fuck.” He pulled back and slipped one saliva-slicked finger into Sherlock’s still-tight hole. Sherlock arched his back, pushing against Greg’s hand greedily and Greg pulled out, causing an annoyed cry. “Stop fucking teasing me, Lestrade.”

“Oh?” Greg murmured. “Like you weren’t teasing me earlier, pushing me up against the door of my own flat, trying to suck me off in my own sitting room? Like you haven’t been trying to tease me for months, knowing that even when you’re half off your head I still find you annoyingly, frustratingly, infuriatingly hot?” Sherlock huffed a laugh, half elation at Greg’s admission and half exasperation at his absent hands. 

Greg hadn’t touched or looked at Sherlock’s cock since he’d had the boy kneel on the bed and, though Sherlock’s begging was just desperate, just debased enough to seem completely real, he still somehow felt he wanted to reassure himself that Sherlock was enjoying this as much as he was. Not that an erection guaranteed that, but with this whole fucking situation being so far beyond wrong, so against what his own better judgement would tell him to do, a familiar measure of arousal might bring it back into the realm of the comprehensible. 

He reached around and felt Sherlock’s cock, encircling its diameter with fingers feeling suddenly heavy and rough against the tender skin. Sherlock was hard, all right, hard and hot and heavy in his hand, and he could feel the boy’s throaty laughter shake through his body. “Told you I’d get hard, Lestrade, did you doubt me?

“Maybe for a moment.”

Sherlock stilled and went quiet for a moment, before murmuring, his voice low and muffled slightly against his arms, “I do want this. I mean, maybe not for all the reasons you might be used to, but I’m here because I want to be.”

Greg licked his lips, stroked one hand along Sherlock’s back in what was intended to be a reassuring manner. “Okay. Okay.”

Sherlock sighed, deeply. “Great, now that that’s taken care of, would you fuck me for god’s sake?” He rolled his hips back, pressing his thighs against Greg’s erection. He wriggled a bit, the friction forcing a gasp from Greg. “Come on, daddy, fuck me, please, I want you inside me.” Greg wanted to roll his eyes at the lightning-quick transition but his attention was quite insistently focused on the press of Sherlock’s body against his cock.

“In the drawer, there,” he gestured to the side table and Sherlock leaned forward, jerking the drawer open and grappling around before pulling out lube and a strip of condoms. He tossed both back to Greg without ceremony and Greg hurriedly flicked open the bottle, spreading lube on his fingers before pressing them into Sherlock, getting his hole coated and slick. He swiped the excess across his cock before wiping his hand on his thigh to make sure he could get a grip on the condom packet. 

He managed to tear one open and roll the latex steadily onto his cock. With a bit more lube on the outside and the bottle within reaching distance, he placed one hand at Sherlock’s hip while using the other to guide him to place. With the tip of his cock in place, he tilted his hips forward, feeling the head push in firmly against the resistance of Sherlock’s muscle. 

He could feel Sherlock inducing his own body to relax in the slight spread of his hips, the tilt of his arse, the slow, deep breath exhaled as Sherlock ducked his head to his chest. “That’s it, son, relax, let me in, come on,” he coaxed, one hand soothing circles on Sherlock’s hip. He pressed forward slowly, letting Sherlock’s body adjust, steeling himself against the delicious tight heat. 

Finally, he felt himself sink in fully as Sherlock shifted underneath him, something in his movement opening his body. Sherlock let out a low, shaky moan, and nodded. “Do it, fuck me, daddy, now.” There was nothing ginger or tentative in Greg’s movements as he pulled out swiftly then pushed back, fucking Sherlock firmly, grasping his hipbones to hold him in place.

For a few long minutes the only sounds were ragged breathing and the slap of skin; Greg concentrated on the feeling of Sherlock’s sharp hipbones beneath his hands, the slide of his sweat against Greg’s rough palms, the ripple of muscles in his back as he arched, stretched, pushed against Greg. He focused on the little details – the shift of bone and muscle under skin, the harsh sound of Sherlock’s breathing, the damp curls stuck to the back of his neck – so that each sensation, taken together, didn’t overwhelm him.

Muscles tightening and hips snapping more firmly, he could feel himself skirting the edge. He reached out blindly with one arm, pulling insistently at Sherlock’s side, and Sherlock, with a groan, pushed himself up off the bed until his back pressed against Greg’s chest. Greg wrapped one arm around his torso, palm covering one nipple, and brought the other down to his cock, hard against his abdomen and wet at the tip.

He stroked firmly, as with each rub Sherlock moved his hips nearly imperceptivity, clenching his arse down on Greg’s cock with every minute movement. Greg fucked into him with quick, short thrusts, unwilling to cede contact between their bodies as _heat want need_ burned and twisted in his gut. Beneath his hand, Sherlock’s blood pulsed, his cock hard and hot and demanding. 

Dropping his head to Sherlock’s shoulder, Greg bit down on the tense muscle at the base of his neck and Sherlock let out a broken cry. He seemed to struggle to regain his voice, but managed to choke out, “Yes, fuck, Lestrade, daddy, god, now, please, now,” and as he swallowed the last word Greg gripped him tighter. Stroking his cock and thumbing roughly over his nipple, Greg pumped into him punishingly as with a wordless gasp Sherlock arched his back, dropping his head to Greg’s shoulder, and came in his hand. 

Sherlock’s cock pumping in his fist and his arse fluttering tight around his cock would be more than enough to send him over the brink, but added to all the fleeting, indescribably incandescent sensations was Sherlock’s voice, rough and hoarse, murmured as he pressed his lips to Greg’s jaw, biting between words. “Come on, daddy, come inside me, fill me up, fuck, come on, I want it, please.”

Greg’s hands scrabbled for purchase around Sherlock’s torso, anything to hold onto the pressure building, to push back against the rising heat, and Sherlock dropped his hands, held Greg’s in place at his hips, and together their fingertips drew bruises in the pale flesh. Greg thrust into Sherlock, the voice on his ear and lips at his throat and hands intertwined all coalescing into one bright instant of fire as he climaxed with a rough, wordless sound.

With a deep sigh, Sherlock collapsed to his elbows and Greg pulled out, removing and tying off the condom before dropping it somewhere on the floor, which he knew he’d regret later. He fell to the bed beside Sherlock, who looked over at him, head resting on his forearms and hair sticking, sweaty, to his temples. 

He knew his grin was slightly dopier than was strictly dignified, but couldn’t much bring himself to care. “That was ridiculous,” he said with a self-satisfied sigh.

Sherlock rolled onto his back, one hand across his brow. “Sex frequently is ridiculous. I fail to see how this particular instance was any more so.”

“Slightly strange role-play that I didn’t even know I would like? Oh, and I’m a decade older than you, for god’s sake.”

“Thirteen years. But I can assure you, you’re hardly corrupting a minor.”

Greg groaned, pressing his thumbs to the corners of his eyes. “I am, though, technically.”

Sherlock’s scoff held far more derision than Greg had thought possible of a single sound. “Under the law, perhaps, but it’s not like that really matters.” He leaned over the edge of the bed, fishing a pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his jeans. He lit one without asking and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke.

Greg narrowed his eyes. “I am a police officer, remember?”

Sherlock rolled his head toward him, exhaling a trail of smoke loudly. “Then let’s make sure no one finds out.” Greg grinned and snatched Sherlock’s cigarette, taking a deep, satisfying pull. Sherlock scowled and he just smiled in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note on consent: this takes place in the early 1990s, when Sherlock is 16-17 and Lestrade is 29-30 (going off the actors' ages). Age of consent between men in England at this time was 21, lowered to 18 in 1994.


End file.
